so plainly
the first time Missy had worn it. She could see the pretty, delicately
tinted face, the big shining brown eyes, and the riotous golden curls
under the drooping, lace-edged brim. Oh, where was Missy now? What
roof sheltered her? Did she ever think of her mother and the little
white cottage under the maples, and the low-ceilinged, dim room where
she had knelt to say her childhood's prayer?

Camilla Clark came that afternoon.

"Oh, it is lovely here," she said gratefully, looking out into the
rustling shade of the maples. "I'm sure I shall soon get well here.
Mrs. Barry was so kind to me--I shall never forget her kindness--but
the house is so close to the factory, and there was such a whirring
of wheels all the time, it seemed to get into my head and make me wild
with nervousness. I'm so weak that sounds like that worry me. But it
is so still and green and peaceful here. It just rests me."

When bedtime came, Mrs. Falconer took Camilla up to Missy's room. It
was not as hard as she had expected it to be after all. The wrench was
over with the putting away of Missy's things, and it did not hurt the
mother to see the frail, girlish Camilla in her daughter's place.

"What a dear little room!" said Camilla, glancing around. "It is so
white and sweet. Oh, I know I am going to sleep well here, and dream
sweet dreams."

"It was my daughter's room," said Mrs. Falconer, sitting down on the
chintz-covered seat by the open window.

Camilla looked surprised.

"I did not know you had a daughter," she said.

"Yes--I had just the one child," said Mrs. Falconer dreamily.

For fifteen years she had never spoken of Missy to a living soul
except her husband. But now she felt a sudden impulse to tell Camilla
about her, and about the room.

"Her name was Isabella, after her father's mother, but we never called
her anything but Missy. That was the little name she gave herself when
she began to talk. Oh, I've missed her so!"

"When did she die?" asked Camilla softly, sympathy shining, starlike,
in her dark eyes.

"She--she didn't die," said Mrs. Falconer. "She went away. She was a
pretty girl and gay and fond of fun--but such a good girl. Oh, Missy
was always a good girl! Her father and I were so proud of her--too
proud, I suppose. She had her little faults--she was too fond of dress
and gaiety, but then she was so young, and we indulged her. Then Bert
Williams came to Lindsay to work in the factory. He was a handsome